Presidential Assassination Rhyming(ish) Prose

For when the stakes are higher than Haikus.

Have you heard of the Curse of Tippecanoe?

It may be the reason Dubbya was almost hit by a shoe.

It started with Billy Harrison in 18-four-naught,

Fresh off slaughtering some natives who would come back to haunt.

For 3 months after his Inauguration,

Billy the Butcher proceeded to exit the Simulation.

Subsequent US Presidents — up to JFK — elected in zero-ending years,

Would all have their terms ended prematurely, in tears.

Sure, Reagan survived (just), and Dubbya (regrettably) too.

But perhaps there is life left still in the Curse of Tippecanoe?

Forget not that, in The Shemitah/Jubilee Conspiracy, atop a great hill,

I warned of the probability of approaching black pills.

Prepare for crash events, I deduced: certainly economical;

External hard drives, for it could also be digital;

But don’t rule out something potentially Biblical. 

On one side the groper; the other inappropriately sniffing,

Porn stars, laptops, and other things unbecoming,

Noah would be looking nervously at the Storm approaching,

Elite factional warfare certainly appears to be escalating,

And now, suddenly, we have a Kennedy running:

Not only that, but Jibby Jab red-pilling!

Fear not for Bobby; if the Curse was revived, it would have to be Bidan:

Father of Hunter; probably a clone; or in a basement, hidin’.

But then it occurred to me, a realisation sudden and shocking:

What if they are the right, the Qtards, the ones we have been mocking?

What if the Resident wasn’t actually Pr

esident?

What if the reign of #45 — under strict Constitutional grounds — was still alive?

What if, while our ambulance chaser eyes were fixed on Sleepy Joe,

It was the Fake Orange Antichrist, predestined to be the star of the final “show”? 

As with all spicy political posts, a disclaimer:

Please do not mistake this rhyming(ish) prose as condoning or manifesting such terror.

But, instead, as a diligent dot-connecting digger’s warnings:

Of potential future prophetic events and their timings.

To assist in staying centered if US politics was to devolve into utter turmoil,

While we — even those Downunder — await impatiently to see if the Troll-in-Chief has indeed left this mortal coil.

For, as the curtains close on this latest loosh-harvesting charade,

As Melania struggles to keep a straight face as she plans the funeral parade,

We might even hear, from the other side of the veil, a shout,

Reminding us what the root cause of all this carnage is about: 

“Fuck around, Whitey, and you will continue to find out!”